marilize legauana (marilize) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-07-27 19:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | bret murray, heroin, marijuana, marijuana party |
Who: Tommy, Bret Murray, Marijuana, and Heroin, semi-completed scene.
What: Meeting half of the parental units.
Where: The Highway, upstairs apartment.
When: Monday evening.
Warnings: Language, drug references, alcohol.
Tommy’d had tutoring sessions at the center and they had gone well; once he was done, he wandered out into the hallway to look for Bret, finding him going over paperwork again in Harvey’s office. He had tried not to be too distracting as Bret finished up, but it was hard not to touch the mortal in little ways, nudging his foot against Bret’s, leaning against his shoulder and nuzzling briefly against the mortal’s neck. Still, he managed to control himself enough to let Bret do what he needed to do and then they were heading out into the warm heat of the summer, Tommy trying not to think ahead to the dinner with his dad and step-dad. He glanced over his shoulder as he slid into the passenger’s seat of Bret’s car, knowing that his bodyguard would follow them to the shop, or, well, first to the supermarket so they could choose something to bring for Tommy’s parents and then to the shop. He waited until he could be sure that his bodyguard was a few cars back before he reached out to hold Bret’s hand, smiling at him lightly, if a tad nervously, as they headed toward the nearest grocery store. And then it was just a matter of trying to choose something to bring for dessert; they ended up choosing a raspberry cheesecake - Tommy hoped that it would help with Heroin - and a six-pack of Marijuana’s favourite brand of beer, Tommy having to hang back from the counter as Bret paid for the beer. After all, his fake ID did say he was only nineteen.
Balancing the cheesecake on his lap as they drove, he directed Bret toward the Highway again, breaking up the directions with random tips about interacting with his parents: just be polite, make eye contact, act interested in them, don’t mention that you were in RENT... and after what seemed like no time at all, they were pulling into one of the customer parking spaces in front of the Highway. Doing so was rather odd for Tommy, who was used to entering from the back, but he paused just before they went up the steps, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet. “Hey,” He said softly, reaching out to brush his hand lightly over Bret’s forearm, which was the last physical contact they would likely have that night. “Don’t be too nervous, yeah? I’m still going to like you, no matter what.” Smiling, he led Bret up into the Highway - just your average head shop, really - and paused at the counter, Cam looking up from his iPad, a friendly, if a tad reserved, look in his eyes. “Hey, Tommy. This your new friend?” Cam didn’t approve, just on principle. Bad things happened when they tried to socialize outside the Highway, he was proof of that, Dave had been proof of that. Still, Tommy nodded. “Yeah. Bret, this is Cam, my dad’s second-in-command. Cam, this is Bret, he works at the center where I’ve been volunteering.”
The front door opened again, Johnny, Tommy’s bodyguard, slipping inside and around Tommy and Bret. “Wes is in the back with tonight’s schedule.” Cam told the bodyguard, who glanced at Tommy for a moment before opening one of two doors behind the counter and disappearing into the back room. Cam’s attention shifted back to Tommy and Bret, the mortal extending his hand for Bret to shake. “How’s it going, man?”
Don’t be too nervous. Well, that was a pretty ironic statement considering Bret had the feeling all day that he was about to walk into some pot-propaganda-meets-Hostel nightmare. It was one thing when he was just slipping upstairs to hang out in Tommy’s apartment with his parents away and without faces put on the incredibly, brain-breakingly intimidating mental image he had of Tommy’s dad. He kept telling himself that he was making a big deal out of nothing that, even if they were overly-protective (which he could understand), that they had to be pretty decent people to raise a kid as intelligent and sweet as their son was. So what did he really have to worry about? It was no different than meeting someone who was a high-powered lawyer or a detective or anything like that.
So he’d smiled at Tommy and nodded, squeezing his hand whenever he needed a bit of reassurance and just kept telling himself that everything would be okay. They came bearing gifts, even! That had to win him some points... right? And as they came up to the shop and he had to let go of Tommy he felt a little like he might really start to panic now. But he plastered on his best real smile and pushed his hair back away from his face, walking into the shop and glancing around with honest interest.
Cam. The guy who’d spotted them coming in the other day, wasn’t it? The guy who’d probably told Tommy’s folks all about his visitor. He couldn’t hold that against him, though - and wouldn’t, it would just be unfair. Bret shifted the six-pack under his arm and reached out to shake Cam’s hand, nodding at him as well. “A little nerve-wracking,” he answered honestly, “but not too bad. This place is pretty nice; haven’t seen anything like it since San Francisco.” And even then he’d only been dragged inside of one other shop by a high school friend who had been kicked out of school for selling weed and, thus, earned Bret’s immediate respect as the insider who had utterly broken the mold. Bret was just jealous that he couldn’t get kicked out of that obnoxious, posh private school for doing anything he would have been doing otherwise.
Cam nodded. “It’s a good place to work. And, hey, beats being on the street.” The mortal didn’t really have much more to say to Bret; he disapproved of the entire concept of Tommy socializing outside of the Highway, merely because of precedent. Maybe Marijuana and Heroin would be able to scare Bret away, and then Cam wouldn’t have to worry about anything going wrong. Tommy glanced toward the doors behind the counter, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind his head anxiously. “He in a good mood?” He asked Cam abruptly, hoping that Marijuana hadn’t had to deal with any problems that day, hoping that nothing about legalization had been on the news and especially hoping that Marijuana was sober, at least when it came to alcohol. Everything else was a lost cause. Cam just shrugged, glancing back down to his iPad. “The new shipment came in a few hours ago. You know how he likes skimming off the top.” Tommy considered; a Marijuana high on heroin was a happy Marijuana and that could only be good. “Well, we can hope it’s good shit, then.” Tommy replied, trying to sound cheerful instead of nervous as he tugged lightly at the sleeve of Bret’s shirt, leading him back around the counter, Cam swivelling on his stool. “Nice to meet you, man.” The mortal said lightly before turning back to his work as Tommy and Bret headed up the stairs. No, Cam thought to himself, this was not likely to work out well and it would lead to extra work for him.
Tommy, however, didn’t care that the evening had likely been doomed since they first set foot in the shop. He was an optimist and, on their way up the stairs, hidden from Cam’s line of sight and having not yet reached the door at the top, he leaned up to press a light kiss to Bret’s lips. “Don’t worry too much. You’ll be fine.” With a last smile, he opened the apartment door and stepped inside. It really was a rather odd apartment, Tommy thought to himself as he tried to imagine what it looked like from the eyes of an outsider. To put it politely, it looked as if stoner culture and the Victorian age had crashed together in a mishmash of Pink Floyd posters and antique snuff boxes and the whole image was just made odder by the gurgling tank that held a snapping turtle. Tommy shrugged sheepishly at Bret as if to say ‘they’re my parents but I have no freaking clue why they’re so weird’ but he didn’t have a chance to say it before there was movement from the kitchen, Marijuana appearing and Heroin following close behind. Wearing a Beatles t-shirt and baggy jeans, Marijuana looked like the perfect image of a stoner and that image was only intensified when drew nearer, ruffled Tommy’s hair lightly, and spoke in a languid, hazy drawl. “Hey, kiddo, you have a good day at the center?”
Tommy nodded, smiling brightly, hopefully. “Guys, this is Bret, the friend I told you about. He’s a Broadway actor.” Tommy looked back at Bret, hoping that his smile was reassuring. “Bret, this is my dad, Marc Jones-Brownstone. He runs the shop and everything that goes along with it.” Tommy looked up at Marijuana “Bret brought raspberry cheesecake and beer.” He ventured, trying to be helpful. Marijuana grinned, plucking the cheesecake out of Tommy’s hands. “Cool shit, yo. I like anyone who comes bearing cheesecake.” Was he laying it on a bit too thick? Probably, but Marijuana did love to be underestimated. The stoner haze in his eyes couldn’t cover everything up, though, and, as he stuck out his hand for Bret to shake, some of the heavy consideration and reservation broke through. He didn’t like the thought of Tommy making friends outside the Highway. “Nice to meet you, man.” He drawled anyway, before stepping back from the handshake. Tommy looked a bit more nervous when he turned his gaze to Heroin. “And this is my step-dad, Hazel Jones-Brownstone. He’s a music producer, works with bands like the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”
Even expecting the performance – it was what Marijuana did – seeing the exaggerated stoner persona in effect amused Heroin, at least, a little. It was a good act, never mind the moment when Marijuana’s real mind, all sharp insights and edges, slipped out because mortals – silly, little mortals – were all too good at rationalizing or forgetting whatever seemed out of place. Except for the crazy ones; a strong hold on one version of reality was sort of a requirement of the human condition and when it was ignored, things could become far more interesting. Which wasn’t, exactly, an appropriate train of thought; Heroin sighed inwardly and flicked his attention from his husband to the human. The amusement drained fast. In contrast to Marijuana, Heroin was dressed in neat lines, black slacks, gray silk button down with the sleeves rolled up. He didn’t greet the mortal. Maintaining the mask of human and music producer and safe was a struggle; he didn’t trust himself not drive a needle into the mortal’s arm as they shook hands and it had been too long since Heroin had killed like that, too long since he’d used his fingerboneneedles on anyone but Marijuana or for any reason but connection and love. So Heroin kept his arms crossed and did his best to keep his eyes a steady hazel and not white, or worse, black as he assessed the figure in front of him. Assessed and dismissed, simple, barely a blink and Heroin nodded his head in the barest gesture of acknowledgement; he never had learned to lose gracefully, or let go.
“Dinner should be in a few moments. Why don’t you all head to the dining room, I’ll take that,” Heroin nodded at the cheesecake, “to the kitchen until after dinner.” English parlors, Morphine’s teas, Coke’s deals, Heroin’s deals, he’d gotten very good at playing polite games and even better at a frigid sort of courtesy. Plucking the cheesecake from Mari’s hands, Heroin flashed a grin at his husband which was not Mari’s shark grin, but a damn good approximation before heading back in the direction of the kitchen. It was going to be a long damn dinner and the headache was already starting.
The decor of the apartment actually wasn’t a huge surprise. He’d come there expecting to be a little amazed and he certainly got what he expected. Bret smiled back at Marc and held his hand out to shake the other man’s, glancing down at the cheesecake. “I wanted to bring something, but Tommy gave suggestions. I was always taught that it’s polite to bring something when you’re invited to someone’s for dinner and wine seemed a little... try-hard,” he shrugged, chuckling a little. Straightforward honesty was going to be his plan for the night. “It’s nice to meet both of you,” he said glancing to Heroin and offering him the same honest, albeit nervous, smile. “Tommy’s a great kid, it’s been fun having him around the center. He’s a crazy good pool player.”
Bret couldn’t help but think that it was a good thing that he’d had experience dealing with parents who weren’t exactly warm and fuzzy. A lot of the parents of kids he hung out with as a teen definitely didn’t approve of his parent’s lifestyle and firmly wanted him kicked out of their school because he didn’t fit in. He’d faced many a cold stare and even more cold shoulders. It was fine, he could deal with it for Tommy. Actually, he’d had an idea on the drive over - one of those serendipitous moments that just hit a person - that might help win him a little bit of favor; but he’d save that until after dinner.
He turned his head and smiled at Tommy, nudging him a little with his shoulder in a way that gave the “see, this isn’t so bad” impression, even though he wasn’t feeling that way at all and he was pretty sure that no one else was either. But he could be the optimist of the bunch if he had to. “After you,” he said, motioning a little towards Tommy and trying to keep that bubbly personality thing going.
“He should be damn good at pool, he learned from the best.” Marijuana replied with a wide grin, following Heroin’s progression to the kitchen before turning back to Bret and Tommy; in an instant, the stoner haze was gone and Marijuana merely looked contemplative as he looked the mortal over slowly. Beside Bret, Tommy stiffened. Not a good sign. “Now, Bret, I believe in complete honesty-” Tommy snorted, although it came out as more of a nervous exhalation. “-well, most of the time, anyway. And this is one of those times; since Tommy met you, he brought an unknown entity into my territory, which is supposed to be secure, without informing me, his step-father, or any of my employees. Once Hazel and I returned from our vacation, Tommy then attempted to distract me from this dangerous choice of his in a rather underhanded way. He then proceeded to lie to his step-father and then he threw a rather childish tantrum when called on his lie, which included several hurtful remarks.” Tommy opened his mouth to protest but closed it quickly when Marijuana’s gaze fell on upon him. “This all leads me to believe that you’re not exactly the best influence on him and, I hope you understand, leads both Hazel and I to be rather biased against this...” Marijuana waved his hand in a dismissive sort of way. “Friendship.”
Tommy was staring at his dad with something akin to horror in his eyes but Marijuana broke out into a slow smile. “However. I’m rather hungry and my husband is an excellent cook. I’m also thirsty and you brought beer. I’m also rather high, so I don’t really feel like being a complete asshole-” Again, Tommy snorted. “-and ruining what could be a perfectly pleasant evening. Besides, my son looks like he’s trying to decide whether to burst into tears or scream at me if I continue in this vein-” Marijuana smiled brightly, even if it was a tad hard, perhaps a bit mercenary. “-so, instead, now that the unpleasantness has been taken care of, how about we go enjoy Hazel’s salmon fettuccine? Oh, and thanks for the beer, I’ll go stash it in the fridge.” He plucked the beer from Bret’s hand with another smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, Tommy, you can’t have any.” Then he too was off toward the kitchen, leaving Tommy to gape after him for a moment or two before turning to Bret, thankful that there were at least a minute or two before dinner would be served in the dining room.
“You know, there’s still time to duck out.” Tommy said with a sigh, running his fingers anxiously through his hair. “After that? I really wouldn’t blame you.”
Bret was actually incredibly glad to have it all laid out like that for him. At least now he knew what happened and how everyone felt and he could mount a proper personal defense. He did feel bad that it had been his suggestion that they go back to Tommy’s place, but at the time he thought that it would be better than going to Bret’s apartment (even though it was just a couple blocks away), because he didn’t want Tommy to feel pressured or stuck or stranded should anything go south. Maybe he had just moved too fast, but he didn’t regret it; he just felt like he needed to make amends.
He nodded at Marc and slid a hand nervously through his own hair. “I do understand, really. It seems like a reasonable response, all things considered. And I hope I can change your mind, because it’s been a while since I’ve had a friend who wasn’t also competition for a role.” And that was all he was able to get out before the other man was out of sight and, he thought, out or earshot.
Bret turned and looked at Tommy, resting a hand on his upper arm for a moment and giving him a reassuring smile. “You shouldn’t have been short with your parents,” he said, “we could have handled it instead of just compounding the problem. But it’s okay, we’ll roll with the punches.” He winked at the boy and straightened out a bit of his hair were MJ had ruffled it and slid his hands into his pockets. “I also could have ducked out the moment I found out who your dad was and I didn’t. So no more talk like that. Let’s go enjoy dinner and if there’s a god who loves me, I might have a lucky thought or two.” He nudged Tommy again and started towards the dining room. “And stop slouching, geeze...” he added with a chuckle. See? Good influence! Or... something.
Family dinners, from the simplest to the celebratory, were Heroin’s delight; he loved the kitchen, the smell of ingredients and sounds of cooking. He and Marijuana had made up in the kitchen, confessed love and fear to the sound of bacon sizzling, Every time Heroin settled in to cook – alone or with family – it was with pleasure, basking in the heat of the stove and the play between precision and improvisation with every recipe. Except for this dinner. It was only salmon fettuccini, but he’d measured everything by the book, made no insights, taken no risks, put nothing of himself into the cooking. He dished the plates the same way, quick and practiced flicks of the tongs but without an eye for aesthetics; things could fall where they may and so long as it was close, it was fine. The only thing which took a moment was ensuring the stuffed lemons were steady, two to a plate, Heroin’s favourite comfort food and as he balanced them on the last dish, for a moment, all he could think of was Phaedra. Everything would be better if she were there. Her and her gentle way of setting him in line, a look or a word or neither, just knowing as they did, her amused disapproval when his composure and manners slipped. But this wasn’t one of her teas or parlors, it was his home with Marijuana and it was about Tommy and the line of Heroin’s behavior was entirely different. Still, it would be nice.
The four plates fit easily on the tray and the rest of the table setting – silverware, glasses, napkins – had been set out already. He slapped his husband’s hand away when Mari reached for it, then kissed him; there were better things than a Twin’s guidance, and a kiss from his husband – when his husband kissed like that – was definitely one of them. And anything else would have to wait until Tommy and his friend were gone and the doors were locked. With a little sigh, Heroin stepped back. He smiled a little regretfully, or wistfully – who could tell? – and picked up the tray from the counter. “Would you mind grabbing the drinks, Geliebte? The non-alcoholic ones for those two, please.” Heroin didn’t care about what the mortal was drinking, but he didn’t want Tommy drinking, which was more about punishment and less about intoxication, but was in effect either way. All that was left was another deep breath before dinner was served.
Below the breath, behind Heroin’s eyes, the Shadow swirled again, bald, bald.* When Marijuana touched his back, Heroin started; his eyes were black and then hazel, too fast to catch the colour and he smiled at his husband again. “I love you, Marihuana-mine.” And after the fight with Tommy and the Shadow slipping into every mirror, it felt good, wonderfully, solidly, good to say that to his husband. Heroin kissed Mari one more time, for good measure, and left the kitchen and pleasures for the dining room and silence.
Tommy sighed. "I know. But I really didn't throw a tantrum like he said I did. I raised some very valid points." For a moment, Tommy looked a tad sheepish. "I just raised said valid points... like the teenager I am." He smiled, though, when Bret fixed his hair and then they were moving toward the dining room, Tommy making sure he sat down beside Bret so they would be across from his dad and his step-father. He didn't want Bret to have to sit beside either Marijuana or Heroin, really.
In the kitchen, Marijuana pouted as his hand was slapped away from the tray and instead busied himself with gathering drinks, pausing only for one last kiss. Slow, languid, and with the promise of more once Tommy and Bret left the apartment, Marijuana pulled back regretfully. "I love you too, Heroin-mine." He murmured, watching Heroin leave the kitchen with a slight frown on his face; he hated the strain this evening was having on his husband and, as he took a beer from the fridge for himself, decided that Heroin would be the recipient of a very, very lengthy massage that night. But that was a long way off, there was food to eat, beer to drink, conversation to force, and Marijuana plastered a neutral look on his face as he made his way into the small dining room that was connected to the kitchen.
Tommy looked up from his seat as Heroin entered with the tray, Marijuana following closely behind him. His Dad was easy to read - Marijuana didn't like the situation but didn't feel like starting a fight - but Heroin was decidedly less so; Tommy's stomach tied itself in knots as he recalled the argument he'd had with his step-father. Guilt, yes, but indignation as well- he had been right, damn it, but he still hated having upset his step-father and possibly causing permanent damage to their relationship. Still, he smiled tentatively over at Heroin as his parents sat down. "It smells really good, Vater. Thank you for cooking." He took a bite, yes, definitely better than Marijuana's cooking. "Tastes really good too!" Maybe acting childishly enthusiastic would remind Heroin that, at his core, Tommy was really just a child and really hadn't meant to anger the older Drug.
Tommy looked between Marijuana and Bret. "Dad, did you know that Reefer Madness was a musical before it was a movie? I didn't know myself until Bret told me that he'd been in a production of it. It sounded like a really interesting experience." Tommy was trying, he really was, prompting Bret to talk about something that connected him, in some small degree, to Marijuana. Common ground, as common as it was going to get.
Despite what was mostly lacking in formality, Bret couldn’t shake the ‘I’m being inspected’ feeling and sat up a little straighter, remembered all his manners. He would have started reciting the mantra about which forks were used first if there had been that many. He didn’t think that not talking about religion or politics was going to be a problem, but he was even aware of the possibility of being lured into something like that. So he was overly-aware of every motion and word that passed between them. He was also aware of Tommy’s nervousness and casually sat in such a way that either his foot was always touching Tommy’s or his knee was.
Once everyone had started eating, he was more than a bit on the quiet side. He nodded when Tommy gave his appraisal, adding his own, “It really is fantastic, thank you. I don’t think I’ve had anything home-cooked since the last time my moms visited.” If this got any awkward, there would magically be camera crews around setting up for some romantic comedy and a punchline about to come out of Marc’s mouth. Once again, Bret was reminded how much he hated meeting people’s parents; but it was worth it for Tommy.
“Oh,” he said with a small chuckle. “Reefer Madness, yeah. Well, the movie is based on the musical. It was the first major off-Broadway role I landed when I got to New York. Our rehearsal space was a perpetual smoke-filled room.” He shrugged, “Getting into character, I suppose? Not that all of us smoked or anything, but...” he realized he was babbling and needed to cut it short. “It was a very liberal cast. And not all of them were as paranoid about losing their voice as I am.” Probably because, and he thought of Amy here, they had other talents to fall back on. He didn’t. But yeah, it was definitely time for him to shut up now.
Settled next to Marijuana, Heroin hooked a foot around one of the chair’s legs to draw it closer to the table, which wasn’t perfectly necessary, but excused his hands being under the table; he rubbed his knuckles across the outside of Mari’s thigh, though whether the massage was to reassure him or Heroin – no, there was no question, it was for Heroin. Every touch kept the tightness in his eyes from spreading, kept the coldness of his hands from burning, kept the mask in place and the Shadow muted. Wasn’t that what Marijuana always did, though? Heroin ignored the praise to his cooking so that he could study his husband for a moment. My light, my sun, they both used endearments daily and he’d gotten careless with their meanings because Marijuana was both those things. Heroin’s hand fell over his husband’s, the edges of the stones caressed his fingers as moved them over Mari’s hand – and maybe Heroin was reassuring himself that there were still five fingers, and maybe he just wanted to touch Mari, and maybe – probably – it was a promise for when the children left.
Heroin picked up his glass – left handed, his right was still occupied – and idly spun the stem between his fingers; the water never sloshed. There wasn’t much he felt inclined to say, oh, a story of toking with… well, virtually any of his bands, while in the studio would have been appropriate. He sipped his water. The look he gave Tommy over the rim of the glass, however, was fondly amused. Heroin had hated and held grudges and lingered over old wounds for decades, but rarely with someone he loved; there was still anger, still hurt which eclipsed Tommy’s points, but Heroin wasn’t going to keep cold from his stepson.
Marijuana seemed to perk up slightly under Heroin’s gaze; he didn’t return it, no, he wanted to keep his eye firmly on Bret, but he could feel it and for a moment, his inner arms prickled lightly. Ignoring the need for the moment, he idly turned his hand under Heroin’s, slowly, carefully, until their fingers were twined together absentmindedly and Marijuana could squeeze his husband’s hand lightly. He could eat with one hand easily. “Seriously, there’s a musical? That’s actually pretty awesome. I’m afraid my knowledge of musicals is limited to the occasional time I feel the urge to dress up to attend Rocky Horror on Halloween. As Riff Raff, not as Frank, of course.” And that was said with a sidelong glance at Heroin; there was no way that even Marijuana’s husband-lover-brother could convince him to dress up in a corset. “And, well, Pink Floyd’s The Wall, but that’s more of an epically long, trippy music video than it is a musical.” This evening, there had already been so many awkward moments and Marijuana, for his part, had already said what he wanted to say regarding Tommy’s friendship with Bret. There was no reason he couldn’t make nice with the young mortal as they ate; if they were all forced to be in the same room as each other, they may as well have a conversation going, however stilted it ended up being.
Tommy was slowly starting to feel more at ease. In part, it was due to Bret’s foot nudging up against his and partly due to the fondly amused look he was getting from Heroin. They’d both played their part in the disagreement and Tommy just wanted things to go back to normal. His smile in Heroin’s direction became less tentative and more thankful; any thaw in the ice between them was definitely something to be thankful for. “No, I don’t think The Wall counts as a musical, Dad, but Bret was telling me about a musical you might like. It’s called... Rock of Ages, right, Bret?” He looked between the mortal and his dad for a moment, fully capable of carrying the conversation and finding ways to ease Bret and Marijuana into a friendly conversation. Heroin was silent, yes, but Tommy could work at incorporating him into the conversation as well. Hopefully.
“Anyway, apparently, it uses classic rock and eighties metal to tell a story about a girl falling in love during the eighties.” Tommy looked over at Bret, a slow smile spreading across his face. “And since we now know a Broadway star, getting decent tickets would be easier, yeah?” Yes, Tommy had said he would go see it with Bret, but it also sounded like something his parents would enjoy and a topic of conversation that was easy, nonthreatening. He could see the show twice; Tommy looked back across the table at his parents. “What do you guys think? It could be a fun family outing!”
A little better, a little easier... The knot between Bret’s shoulders was starting to ease and his smile was becoming less nervous and more genuine. “It’s actually really funny,” he said, “all the scene changes are built around the same living room set so it gives the impression that Jimmy’s visit to Heaven and the orgy scene is just big trip,” he said with a grin. And his smile only widened a little when Tommy started talking about Rock of Ages because, very exciting for Bret, the kid was starting to catch on to all the details. “I could get you guys great seats to almost anything you want to see. They give us, like, season passes and since we work constantly there’s never time to use them. You could have my cast seats whenever you wanted. And for Rock of Ages... a girl I was in Reefer Madness with originated a role in the other and so I totally hook you up. Warning, though, the do a couple of reprises of Don’t Stop Believing and no matter how hard you try, it’s bound to get stuck in your head for days after.”
He remembered that detail from his first conversation with Tommy and thought he’d throw it in for good measure. The more common ground, he figured, the better. And now that he wasn’t feeling so insecure he was starting to be a little more friendly with his chattiness. He was relieved, too. If he wasn’t nervous he’d act more natural, more normal, and there would be less of a chance either one of Tommy’s parents might mistake his nerves for putting up a front. “The touring cast of Hairspray is also reviving its production for a weekend in late August so I’ll be doing that if you have any interest in really cheesy eighties camp?” He figured just about anyone who liked Rocky Horror would find something to like in Hairspray. It was like the grand trinity of campy musicals - with Hedwig and the Angry Inch rounding it out.
The headache returned with a vengeance and Heroin almost wished that the water in his glass was wine, but that would only make the tight throbbing behind his eyes worse later in the night. Part of the problem was he couldn’t find a way of refusing the mortal’s offer without sounding as petulant as accused Tommy of being. It was an idea with appeal, though, a simple ‘yes, thank you, I’ve worked on the casting recordings for several productions and never have trouble getting tickets’ hovered at the tip of Heroin’s tongue before he swallowed the temptation. Hardly worth it, whatever momentary inconvenience it might cause the mortal wasn’t worth playing the shrew and Heroin sipped his lemon-water again, held onto his silence as he turned the impulse over in his mind, again, looking for a better answer. Something shorter, without the boast – he didn’t need to flaunt his achievements, not at his own dinner table – something sharper, then and subtler. When had word games gotten so difficult? The next industry event that came along, Heroin would attend; an hour in a room with record execs and he was positive his sparring skills would be recover, if self-preservation if nothing else.
A quick glance at Marijuana, though, and Heroin was suppressing a sigh of irritation at his wonderful, vital husband, who seemed like he was willing to take the mortal up on the offer. Definitely not with it then, the satisfaction having found the perfect words faded and Heroin idly nudged a bit of salmon with his fork. He rubbed his across Mari’s knuckles, more reassurance, the warmth of his hand didn’t chase the cold as far, but it was better than nothing, it could still keep Heroin at the table. He just wondered if that was a good thing.
“I think I could suffer through Journey for the sake of a classic rock musical.” Marijuana mused, glancing over at Heroin for a moment; he could tell that his husband wasn’t as receptive to the offer but, hey, they didn’t actually have to take Bret up on it. Marijuana didn’t really feel like letting this dinner dissolve into complete awkwardness, he had a run or two to make later on that night and, for the sake of not taking any potential frustration out on his employees, he would continue to make small talk. No, he didn’t like Bret or the concept of Bret, but, like he’d said before, there was food, there was beer; no reason to let things get out of hand. “And I’d, of course, be grateful for any tickets you could get us. I’ve lived in the city for some time now and I don’t think I’ve ever gotten around to seeing a Broadway show. Time to fix that, yeah?” He took a gulp from his beer, calling up a small touch of power as he did so, just the flicks of the lighters from the stoners in the vicinity, and used it to warm the hand that was clasping Heroin’s; Bret, obviously, wouldn’t notice a thing but Tommy cocked his head to the side momentarily. He was, of course, in tune with his dad and his dad’s power, but he brushed it off and kept smiling, wanting the dinner to continue to go smoothly, at least, relatively smoothly.
However, Tommy would have to stop trying to draw Heroin into the conversation. It didn’t look like it was going to work out at all and, yes, that made Tommy rather sad, but he could cover it up with smiles and eat his dinner just a bit faster so, maybe, they could get through the meal without incident. “Yeah!” Tommy answered Marijuana’s question before Bret could, smiling happily simply because it was better than anything else. “Especially this summer, Dad, Vater, before I go back to school and become so ensconced in textbooks that you guys barely ever see me.” Marijuana smirked lightly, raising his eyebrows in Bret’s direction. “Tommy is doing a minor in business so he can follow in my footsteps.” Tommy coughed lightly, wishing that he could have had one of the beers Bret had bought, or a joint. “That’s an option, dad. I don’t think Father would approve, though.”
Marijuana was in the middle of muttering something that sounded like ‘your father can suck my cock’ when his cell phone buzzed in his jean pocket, Marijuana regretfully untangling his hand from Heroin’s to dig it out and read the text. Shooting off a quick reply, he set the cell phone down next to his plate, faking an apologetic look as he spoke to Bret. “Sorry, I know it’s rude to have cell phones at the table. My business day doesn’t really start until it gets dark, though, and I like to keep on top of things.”
At least he didn’t feel like Tommy’s dad wanted to mount his head over the fireplace anymore. This was an advantage, at the very least. The jury was still out on his step-dad, though, and he was fairly certain that it would be out for a long time. He could handle; it was okay. And as long as he kept the mental tally on how well (or bad) this was going, he felt a lot less like he was going to crawl out of his own skin at any moment.
“It’s a great show,” he said. “I already got Tommy a couple tickets, but I’d be happy to get a couple more for the same night.” He offered a somewhat pleased smile and took a drink, glancing over to Hazel for a moment once he’d set his glass down again. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he thought he felt a chill work up his spine. Yeah, he probably wouldn’t be coming around here much anymore. Luckily Bret had a pretty swank apartment over Broadway (that his mother helped him pay rent on but he would never admit that) to drag Tommy back to when they wanted to hang out outside the center. Might be better for everyone involved.
He was trying not to smirk at Marc’s grumble when the ringing phone startled him a little and he watched the man’s hands curiously as he set the phone back on the table. “Oh, no need to apologize,” he said, glancing away, “it’s business. When it calls, it calls. My mother works pro bono cases in San Francisco, so I’m used to phones ringing at dinner. My mom says she doesn’t even notice anymore.” But that did remind him of his possibly good idea that he wasn’t going to bring up until after dinner but might just have an opening for now...
“Actually,” he said, “I wasn’t going to mention it until after dinner, but if you’ll forgive me for being a little forward... I don’t know what products you sell, but I have quite a few friends - other actors, mostly - who use prescription drugs to just keep moving after 18 hour work days and... one of the suppliers they go to is unreliable at best. There’s been some almost nasty near-accidents with junk product. I’d like to make sure my friends aren’t putting crap in their bodies. If you or anyone you work with is interested... I’d be happy to send them your way.” Bret honestly didn’t see a problem with drugs at all, but he definitely didn’t see a problem with pills, and he’d be the first to admit they helped when you spent three sleepless days memorizing lines only to have a week filled with two-a-night productions and half a day to recuperate before it all started over again.
Heroin grew very still as Bret put forth his second offer of the night. Marijuana had grilled Tommy and Tommy had told Marijuana and Marijuana had told Heroin that the little mortal knew that Marc Jones-Brownstone was a drug dealer, but Heroin hadn’t expected it to come up over dinner, hadn’t expect that fucking little human weed to start invading the Highway and it stopped being about verbal games and silence because the muscle in Heroin’s jaw was tight, tight enough to crush his teeth together and he couldn’t have spoken even if he was still thinking in words. And this the glance at Marijuana which revealed he was interested – mildly, all right, but still considering - snapped the too-frayed leash to Heroin’s temper; he’d never been happier to not be in contact with his husband. His skin was far too cold for lighters or sunlight to warm and he put his head down and breathed, just breathed, couldn’t look up, couldn’t look anywhere near Tommy without him seeing there was a crack in the mirror and Heroin’s eyes were black.
“If you would excuse me, I need to fetch the water pitcher,” he spoke slowly, a trace of a German accent that Hazel Brownstone had never had, crept into the words but that didn’t matter because his voice wasn’t quite the voice of Hazel Jones-Brownstone. Heroin rose from the table with the same care, not graceful, but cautious as kept his head down and his hair – mercifully, mercifully still blond – hung over his face, his eyes. The walk to the kitchen was a study of steps – how did he usually walk? – too hard to remember and hold the edges together so he just took one step and another until he was out of sight and there was the familiar feel of the kitchen counter beneath his hands. He flexed his fingers and the countertop crumbled, deep holes gouged in the smooth façade. The dark filled his eyes - invading, infectious, noxious bit of meat - and his teeth ground down in snarl - couldn’t sing, couldn’t scream, no noise - while his fingers burrowed further into the counter, wiggling deep, raising dust from the messy holes.
This was his home, his family, his world and now this childcorpseeindringling - Heroin open his mouth and exhaled, shoved the air from his lungs and bowed his head until it touched the lip of the ruined count. “fuck.” He bolted up, yanking his hands from the counter and bit back a second curse as he tore his fingers from the holes. For a moment, he stood still, let the pain thrum and let the Shadow soak it in before he washed his hands in the sink. All it took was a slight tug of power and his fingers were repaired. He snagged the water pitcher from the ‘fridge and carried it back to the table, fixed fingers white knuckled on the handle – bad time for fingers around the Highway – and set it silently on the table. His eyes were their perfectly normal shade of hazel again, but cold, and he didn’t quite dare look at either Marijuana or Tommy or the mortal in the eye. Heroin also didn’t touch the pitcher again, just dropped his hands into his lap and tried to surreptitiously clean the dust from his wedding ring.
Marijuana saw movement out of the corner of his eye, saw Heroin’s head fall forward slightly and when he spoke, his voice was just a tad louder than it had been before, the gesturing movements of his hands just a tad broader. “That’d be awesome, man! I mean, my focus is on the more lucrative products, but every little bit helps. You know, I never did buy myself that helicopter I wanted.” The last sentence was a tad quieter as Marijuana appeared to be simply reminding himself of the desire, but it was all for show, to ensure that their attention was off Heroin. If Marijuana was right - and, most of the time, he was, in this regard - proof of Heroin’s immortality was threatening to break through, whether it was caused by the stress of the dinner or by Bret’s offer. For his part, Tommy wasn’t sure what was going on, but he knew he had to hold Bret’s attention as well, nudging the mortal with his elbow lightly and rolling his eyes. “Ever since Father got a private jet for his birthday, Dad’s been trying to figure out how to upstage him. I keep telling him we don’t have room on the roof for a helicopter pad.”
Heroin stood; Marijuana glanced up casually and smiled, again for show. “Of course, Seligkeit.” Inwardly, Marijuana’s mind was working on overdrive; his husband was upset, upset with Bret’s presence, yes, but so was Marijuana. What was it, exactly, that had set Heroin off to the extent that the older Drug’d had to retreat to the kitchen? Marijuana wasn’t quite sure, even after more than a year together, there were facets of Heroin that were a complete mystery to him. Already Marijuana was planning out ways to pamper his husband after Tommy and Bret left, while simultaneously picturing the mortal’s gory death, but the smile remained plastered to his face. “If he gets a plane, I get a helicopter, it’s just that simple. And there’s room for a pad on the roof of the apartment building.” Tommy was about to answer his father - Marijuana didn’t own the whole building, he couldn’t build a helicopter pad on the roof - when Heroin came back into the room. Marijuana swallowed slightly; he could practically feel the tension and ice radiating off Heroin in a way that only he, having spent so many months engulfed in Heroin’s presence and privy to his shifts and changes, could feel innately, definitively. Tommy would sense that something was off, of course, and perhaps Bret would be able to pick up on the slight drop of metaphorical temperature, but Marijuana, he knew that something was very wrong.
“But, yes, Bret, I’d be happy to hook your friends up.” Taking another gulp from his bottle of beer, Marijuana reached down to take one of Heroin’s hands. It was a miracle that he didn’t flinch; Heroin’s hand felt like it had been encased in ice. Still, he retained his light hold, twining their fingers together gently as he continued to speak. “I can give you the number before you head out tonight. They probably won’t be dealing directly with me, not for little shit like pills, but my second should be able to get them anything they want.”